Winter Vigil

Sheltered in hot woolen jogging pants, leather boots and a high-collar pullover, daringly I dive into more poetry and everything warms me on this Winter night: the clothes heating my body, the poems, my soul. The dripping of the badly fixed tap, the ill-humored dogs grumbling afar, the monotonous humming of the refrigerator, the sensuous woman requesting my caresses, all touch me softly, cradling me, comforting me, making my legs numb, transporting me inebriated to another dimension. Flash Gordon, with neither rocket nor space suit, I wander my cosmic journey, scanning the galaxies, looking for the quasar from whence poems emanate permeating the Universe. In the apparent silence of the sleeping night, small noises, residues of a lively day, tell me that I am still on the Earth. So I feel, Old Poet, my brother, that this new day, that's awaking at the rooster's call, with the roar of the first bus, moistened by this fragrant dew, it will be perfect. Now the sleep whispers to me that I must go rest, to be ready to go on promoting the friendship sowed along the ways of all the world, collecting miracles, living, in their plenitude, the moments and details of this wonderful life that dazzles and almost smothers me.